


204 - Fancy Restaurants & Hard-to-Say 'I Love Yous'

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 19:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17392754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “van said to the girl he loves her a few times and always expect her to say it back but she doesnt since she never said it to anyone. so he has a panic attack bc he thinks she doesnt love him back (in the end theyre good and she loves him ofc)” and “something about van and the lads going into a fancy restaurant and meeting reader who is a server and just like cute stuff and flirting and leaving a big fat tip with his number written on the check”





	204 - Fancy Restaurants & Hard-to-Say 'I Love Yous'

The restaurant was frequented by the rich and famous. It only took a couple of weeks of working there for the novelty of that to wear off. You theorised that the rich stayed rich because they were so cheap; they didn't tip any more than regular people. And, the famous stayed that way by not associating with the (gasp!) lower class. Okay, so, it was a generalisation, but for all the recognisable people that had come through the doors, you'd not served many that stood out as remotely human. The only exceptions were Ewan McGregor and Olly Alexander from Years and Years. They had both been kindness and grace and good tippers. The rest though, fuck 'em.

It was for this reason that you loved when record executives would bring messy bands in for fancy dinners. They always looked uncomfortable, and sometimes they would do everything they could to undermine the bourgeois atmosphere of the room. Always the highlight of a shift. So, when Catfish and the Bottlemen walked through the door and followed you to a table, your hopes were high. 

It became very clear very quickly that they'd never been to a restaurant like yours. You handed them menus that were essentially novellas and watched them become overwhelmed at the choices, and probably the ridiculous wording of those choices. Their eyebrows pulled together in hidden confusion as you recited the specials. Half the words were in French, although there wasn't anything particularly French about the dishes themselves. Another example of things masquerading as something they’re not; much like the record execs that pretended to know what you were saying. 

One of them ordered wine, pronouncing the Italian name completely incorrectly, then waved you away with his hand so they could talk. One of the band members watched the flick of the wrist with a face of discontent, then looked up at you. You wanted to tell him it was okay and that you were used to it. Instead, you left them to it.

Upon your return, you poured the wine with one hand and memorised the orders as they gave them. The final person to speak was the one with sympathy. He'd not let the host, Mark, take his jacket, but it sat over the back of his chair. It was against the script. When you looked at him with a soft smile, his head titled to the side.

"You remember all that?" he asked, clearly impressed. You nodded. "How?"

"Magic," you replied, getting a few chuckles across the table. He blushed a little and nodded. "What will you be having tonight, Sir?" He frowned; maybe it was at the word Sir or maybe something else. He shrugged and looked back up at you, handing the menu over.

"I don't know," he answered.

One of the execs clapped his hand on the guy's shoulder. "Don't be like that, Van. You're a rock star now. You can have whatever you want. Have the lobster!" Van smiled politely at him, then looked back at you.

"Can you pick for me? Just somethin' normal," he asked. His accent was out of place but his voice was quiet and kind. You nodded.

"Of course, Sir."

Just before their entrees were due to arrive at their table, you returned to them and began to place the expensive linen napkins in their laps. Beginning with the execs so the others would know what to do, you ended at Van. It was good practice to pick up on names and commit them to memory. Knowing someone's name gives you power. 

He sat out from the table and blushed as your hands worked. The little smirk on his lips was definitely being held back, but he was pretty much an open book. He was flicking between amused and embarrassed at the whole thing; like he knew you thought it was all stupid too.

...

"Don't that burn your arm?" Van asked as you delivered plates of mains to them.

"Van, leave the girl alone," an exec ordered. Van looked at you, still wanting an answer. You shook your head a tiny bit, just enough for him to see it.

"How do you carry so many at once? Have you ever dropped anythin'?" he asked when you returned with the final plates. His band sniggered and grinned at his inability to follow instructions.

"Magic, and no," you replied, placing his food in front of him. You'd had the chef make something off the menu. It was essentially a pub meal but made to look just a little bit more pretty. In the back freezer you'd even found some pre-made Yorkshire puddings left over from a staff party held on St. Patrick's Day (although, that didn't quite make sense). Van's entire face lit up. Before he could say anything, you walked away, his reaction enough of a thank you.

Fifteen minutes later you returned to check on them. Van's plate was clear. "How is everything?" you asked the collective. The execs ordered more wine, and one of the band complained that they didn't get special food. The irony of his plate's worth being triple Van's was lost on him.

In the kitchen, the chef chuckled when he saw you bringing Van's plate through.

"Did ya boyfriend like it?" he teased.

"Fuck off," you answered.

"Ohhhhhhh, testy! Thought you hated everyone that comes here?"

"He's… different," you replied, standing on tippy toes and looking through the small circular window in the doors out to the floor, where Van was mid-story, his hands moving around, narrowly missing wine glasses. Both people either side of him moved the glasses away.

"Yeah, yeah. Course he is. Do us a favour and run that garbage bag outside, yeah?"

"Yep," you replied, dragging yourself from your daydream and picking up the bag.

...

The air outside was cool and clear. The city's lights prevented the stars from being able to twinkle and that was a sad thing you mourned for more frequently than was logical. Always a dreamer though, you let yourself stare up into the sky.

"Uh, hi," a voice spoke. You jumped and stepped backwards, closer to the safety of the door. Van stepped out of the shadows, from where he was smoking. "Sorry!" he said quickly, hands up. "Didn’t mean to scare ya,"

"What are you doing?" you asked.

He held up the cigarette like it explained everything. When you said nothing, he spoke again. "Guy at the front, valet, said I couldn't smoke out there. Said to come out back," he told you. Made sense; you nodded. "Anyway… Thank you for the food… Don't like all that fancy stuff, you know? I hate coming to places like this, no offence,"

"None taken,"

"Like, it's dead funny and everything and I’m grateful, but it's…"

"Uncomfortable?" you asked. He grinned and nodded. "I don't think you're the only one that feels that way. Half the people I serve are too nervous to eat anyway,"

"Yeah… People are strange… You don't really seem like the type to work somewhere like this though,"

"The type? What type am I?" you replied. He smiled and realised his mistake.

"Seem more normal than all this. Nicer, or something. More honest,"

"Maybe. Maybe I'm just a good actor. Just doing my job, making you comfortable so you'll spend more money," you joked. He laughed and nodded.

"Yeah, maybe, but that ain't true, is it?"

You shook your head and smiled, unable to stop yourself.

"I've got to go now. I'll see you for dessert, Van," you said, emphasising his name.

"Yeah, okay…" he said. "Wait! How'd-" but you had closed the door and disappeared inside. Names are power.

...

After their dessert plates were cleared and the check was left with them, you watched Van take the book. It was the norm for the execs to pay, and they had, but inside the book were two cards, and a scribbled down number. In addition to the usual tip, Van had matched the price of the entire meal and tip. His name was next to his number, but you wouldn't find any of that out until after they were gone.

You watched Van walk the book to Mark at the host podium and have a quick conversation. Mark nodded with a smile, and Van looked around for you. From where you were pouring wine at another table, you locked eyes. He smiled and gave you a little captain's salute and a wink. You gave him one nod back and watched them leave.

At the end of the night, Mark came over and handed you the receipt. You laughed at the number and shrugged.

"You're missing the important bit," Mark said. You shook your head at him. He pointed to the tip.

"What the fuck,"

"Yeah… Got yourself a sugar daddy there, Y/N, except like… not old,"

"Firstly, fuckin' gross. Never say that phrase again. Secondly, what the fuck, this is too much. What do I do?"

He laughed. "Accept it with grace. Call him. Give him the date he just paid you for,"

"Fuck you, Mark."

Another laugh and he walked off.

Instead of public transport, you indulged in a taxi ride home. You'd made more than enough in tips to afford it and a whole bunch of other stuff on your wishlist. In the backseat of the car, you transferred Van's number into your phone, and carefully folded the receipt and put it in your wallet.

…

A week passed before you worked up the courage to use the number. Making an actual adult phone call was just way too fucking scary to even consider, so you sent a text message. 'I have to confess something about the Yorkshires' you wrote. Ten minutes later Van replied. 'If ya gonna tell me they werent from scratch I already figured that' You smiled. 'Sorry' then the emoji of the girl shrugging. 'I will consider forgiveness on 1 condition' he replied instantly. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he'd stopped to have the conversation. '???' you wrote, to which he replied, 'let me take ya on a date, a proper one but not to a fancy restaurant'

The following Friday you met Van in the city. A few days after that, you met for breakfast. After that, lunch and visits to the recording studio and lowkey dates at his house and yours. He'd pick you up from work as often as he could, and you'd drive through the city for hours, without a destination, happy with each other's company. As he filled his car with petrol, you'd walk through the store picking candy and novelty toys to buy. A month and a half later, you were spending more time with Van than anyone else. Being around him was comfortable. He made you felt safe and like you could be yourself.

...

You were wrapped up in the sheets of Van's bed on a Tuesday morning while he sat on a chair he'd brought in from the kitchen. He sat it close by and gave you a mini-concert of your favourite slow songs. It was one long mashup and when he was done, you pulled him into bed and curled around him. The nakedness of your body was warm against the cool material of his jeans and t-shirt.

"Thank you," you whispered, kissing his neck and holding him tight.

"You are very welcome, Y/N," he replied. "And I love you."

You made a happy humming sound in reply and kissed him again. You hadn't given it a second thought. Of course he loved you.

…

After a night out at the pub with Van and his friends, you were mucking around under the blankets in your bed.

"Can I ask you somethin' a bit weird?" he asked, play fighting your hands away from where you were trying to tickle him.

"I live for weird. Go," you replied, not noticing the shift in his mood. He thought for a second before speaking again.

"How many people have you dated?"

You laughed and looked at him. He had your wrists in his hands; he kissed them gently.

"Like, proper dated? Three, I guess…. Nah, two. The first one was in high school and doesn't really count, I don't reckon. So, two,"

"Tell me about them?"

"You want to know about my exes?" you asked, a little confused and a little worried. He nodded and moved from kissing your wrists to the back of your hands and fingertips.

"Um… I was with Luke for… not even a year? Almost. I don't know. He was an apprentice chef at work when I first started there. Think I thought it was just what I had to do? Like, date him. I don't know. When he got another job we just didn't really talk as much, so we broke up. Then… I was with Ally for about a year and a half. She broke up with me 'cause we were just too different. Wanted to do different things and have different lives. I don't know," you told him.

"Did you love them?"

You thought for a second. "I don't know. No. Not really. I wasn't in love in love or anything,"

"Did you tell them that you loved them?"

No. You hadn't. You had never told anyone that you loved them. Not like that. You realised then why he was asking, what he was getting at.

"No. I didn't."

Van nodded, temporarily satisfied with his place in your heart.

…

Every time Van told you that he loved you, you'd nod and kiss him, or you'd say 'yep' or 'me too.' Anything other than the stupid small words. In the beginning, it wasn't a conscious thing. But after the conversation about exes, you realised you were avoiding it. It wasn't on your list of things to worry about though. You'd say it when you were ready. Simple as that.

Time moved on, Van's album was finished and he was getting ready for tours. You'd met his family and he'd met yours. Everything was happening under a pretty, rose coloured light.

Then, the chef at the restaurant had been taken to hospital, something about a broken toe. It meant the place was closed and you had the night off unexpectedly. You drove to Van's and walked in unannounced. The house was quiet, and you slowly made your way through the rooms looking for signs of life. The back door was open, the screen door propped open with a rock so Little Mary could come and go as she pleased. You stood in the doorway. Van and Larry were sitting at the outdoor table, both their backs to you. Van's voice was upset, and it was the reason you'd stopped moving.

"I just… I don't know what I'm doin' wrong, you know what I mean?" he said. His voice cracked and maybe he'd been crying.

"Nothing. You ain't done anything wrong-"

"Then why… Fuck!" His breathing was getting fast and you could hear it even from the back door. He was bouncing in his chair. "I love her so fuckin' much. I don't know what I'll do if she leaves."

You? If you leave? Why the fuck would you leave?

"Calm down, mate. Take a breath. Just 'cause she's not said it doesn't mean she doesn't feel it. Have you just asked her?"

"Larry, if I have to ask her then it means she doesn't…" He couldn't bring himself to say it. A world in which you didn't love him back hurt too much to give airspace too.

"Van?" Your voice had come out smaller than you meant it to. Both of them turned around, and Van immediately stood up and wiped his face. You carefully stepped around the rock and walked to him. He watched you, his face sad and concerned.

"I'm… just… gonna…" Larry said and made a quick escape back inside the house, picking up Little Mary and taking her with him.

"You think I don't love you?" you asked him, hurt but really… Van was a literal person that needed words. You should have figured that out earlier. 

"I… It's fine. You've never said it to anyone, right? It's fine," he replied. It wasn't fine.

"No… But that's 'cause I haven't loved anyone… But I do love you. I'm in love with you. I’m sorry that… that I didn't make you feel like that. I love you, Van. I promise," you told him, putting your arms around his neck and pulling his body to yours. In the crook of your neck, he made a sound that you couldn't interpret. He held on tight and wouldn't let go until Lulu and Mary came tearing from the house in a scream of barks and yelps.

…

On the night before Van was leaving for tour, he sat on the bench in the kitchen of the restaurant. The place was empty and quiet, save for the sound of music playing from the main floor.

"Okay, what about now?" you asked, spoon feeding him some of the sauce.

"Yep. Yep. Amazing. You've got it," he reported.

Work had given you free reign for the night. Van had watched you cook and use all the stupidly expensive ingredients. He'd set up a table in the middle of the kitchen, dragging in one of the small tables from the floor. Linen napkins and candles, you sat opposite each other and ate.

"I can appreciate lobster, but it's just like… other seafood," Van said. You laughed and nodded. 

Dishes done and everything cleared, you laid back on the stainless steel benches, eating leftover blood orange sorbet from the tub.

"I'm going to miss you,"

"Not nearly half as much as I'll miss you, babe," Van replied. "But you're gonna come visit, yeah?"

"Yep. Definitely."

You stayed silent for a little while longer. When your tummies were full and it was getting late, Van slid off the counter and stood between your legs as you sat up.

"Y/N?"

"Mmmm,"

"I love you," he said, watching you closely.

"I love you too."


End file.
